Midnight in the Sun
by Hemlock
Summary: Here is Chapter Seven! May come as no surprise if your guesses are right, but then the only way to find out is to read it, buddy!
1. The Office

_Author's Note: For those who are concerned with timeline, this case occurs a few years after Mick St. John killed Coraline in a fire. Maybe 1995._

_-+-_

"Are you ready?"

Questions like that are normally posed to women by men who are about to have some serious sexual time together. Something I often imagined, but for my condition just cannot seem to find the proper outlet. At that moment when I noted to myself that a man, and to top it off, a friend of mine and a mentor, was the one who said it, I came to a realisation that I pathetically and desperately needed to hit the sack with a willing woman –

"Mick!"

That effectively tore me away from very vivid imaginings of – anyway, there I was, sitting in a considerably plush chair. A rather modern take on a study table rested between me and the door. I rather missed my traditional office table. It was not massive, not angular and definitely had no metal at all. But after a lopsided fight between a much harangued ex-husband and me, the wooden table lost two of its legs and had to be sacrificed to the wood chipper.

My eyes scanned the gleaming glass surface. Upon it littered the usual suspects found on any office desks, except for one. A tall wineglass filled with blood. My eyes affixed themselves upon them and my fingers flew greedily toward it, taking the stem and was about to drain it down when a polite 'ahem' stopped me.

"Shouldn't you be saying something like – I don't know, a toast – before you drink up your blood?" Josef said with one hand holding up his wineglass. "I did not know you're that thirsty."

"Shut up," I said cordially to him. "And yeah, I do have something to say. Let's wish that the first case does not come from you." I clanked my wineglass with his and drained the blood. Resisting the urge to lick the glass clean, I put it away.

"That's something I can't promise," Josef smiled. "How does the new office feel like?"

I looked around. The window behind me was a nice touch. It was built in such a way that I would be able to enjoy the view, but it also shielded me from the sun. "Do I really need this much of space? It really feels a bit too airy."

"Hey, be thankful. You don't get a loft with a very reasonable price tag every decade. You're lucky the housing is in the gutters this year."

For Josef, a reasonable price tag means his spare change. The man is capitalism incarnate. Money means everything to him, from his mansion to the shoes that he wears. He is money-smart, I give him that. Everything has a price tag, even the blood we live upon. While I buy mine from dealers in blood banks all over Los Angeles, he strolls to any woman he fancies and makes an offer she cannot refuse. Often, in terms of a small apartment and a steady monthly cash flow combined with a watertight contract that bans them from communicating to anyone. Not even the tabloids.

"Don't you need a secretary for your files?" he asked further. "You have quite a collection of case files over there."

"No!" The decline came perhaps a bit too quickly. Josef turned to me with a brow raised. "I mean, no, thank you. I manage myself pretty well."

"The last time you said that, this –"Josef spread his hands around "- happened."

All right, I had to admit. There was another story behind this relocation.

My small office was broken into by the aforementioned ex-husband from hell. He thought I was the cause of their divorce while, in truth, his wife actually wanted me to check upon him. A woman's intuition is rarely wrong, so when I happened upon him cheating and showed the wife the incriminating photos, she gave him the divorce papers.

Come to think of it, I _am_ the cause of their divorce.

The husband simply saw it from the only angle he was familiar with: he thought I was the new beau who got his wife so hot, tricked her into divorcing him and demanding a high alimony. So he went over to my office one afternoon, thought I was not there, and proceeded to try starting a fire. Vampires, even when sleeping, still retain their sharp noses. It was for the mortal, and unlucky or lucky for me, depending on perspectives.

If you think lucky, then that was how my office got relocated and redesigned. Josef thought 'the old one was too gumshoe, too noir. It is high time to start a clean slate'.

Up yours, too, Josef.

Josef stared at me again, as if he knew what I was thinking. He does, really. That doesn't frighten me anymore. I used to be frightened when anyone did that to me. Now I prefer to be an open book to him. I don't hide things from him. Well, maybe certain things.

"How are you after – well, Coraline?" Josef wondered as he sipped his glass of blood.

What did I tell you? Should I or should I not?

"Well," I began reluctantly, "I still feel guilty. What she did was unforgivable, though. But we had not been seeing each other eye to eye from the beginning."

Josef pulled a chair and sat facing me across the study. "Tell me. I heard you first applied for divorce."

Let's not forget one restraining order and a bunch of other stuff that kept her away from me for at most a week. "We kind of – uh, fell apart."

"You mean the _relationship_ fell apart."

It was everything. Everything fell apart so fast I had no idea what to catch first; my sanity, my humanity or the love of my (un)life who tore a hole in my psyche and left a big gaping hunger that would remain for the rest of my existence. So yes, I was the first who applied for divorce from her, to make it legal. So human, don't you think?

I chose to catch my humanity first. I chose to be selfish. Was Coraline not selfish, too? She turned me into a vampire without my consent, without me knowing who she was really, selfishly. I arrived into the shadowed world of vampire like a hungry child, scared and orphaned, and I can still recall the way her eyes looked down upon me when I first tasted blood. She was happy to see me draining the blood and life of an innocent soul. I was her favourite little monster she had hoped to teach the darker side of being a vampire.

"There never was a relationship," I replied after a quiet spell. "Only co-dependence."

Josef sneered. "Relationship _is_ co-dependence. The only difference is the way they are played out."

"She relished on my human reactions to satisfy her sick mind games. I depended on her to learn the ways of a vampire. Do you realise, Josef, the things that she did just to satisfy that wicked, twisted sense of curiosity of hers? She killed a man just to see how her family would react. She pushed a nun to her death from a bell tower simply to learn how a rumour spreads. Heck, she kidnapped a girl, thinking I would go back to her and rear a family."

"Sounds like a great experimenter," Josef commented lightly.

That earned him a black stare from me, which he simply looked away with nonchalance.

"But I can see," Josef went on, "and so as you have always said, you are not a fan of ignorant brutality and unconscious manipulation. That is why you started this institution." He chuckled dryly. "You do realise that this somewhat mirrors fiction."

"What fiction?" I asked warily. Being compared to some fiction is like comparing vampires to Bram Stoker, who, actually, got none of them correct.

"Sherlock Holmes, the great detective who fights against the Napoleon of criminals, professor Moriarty who, by sitting in his lecture halls, controls the flow of crimes simultaneously, like a spider in the middle of its web. Tugging the strings here and there and everything falls into place."

I had to smile, even when the imagery of Coraline as an omniscient, terrible spider brought a darker sense of dread into my head. But the spider was already gone, thankfully. "And you are my Watson."

Josef stood up, mortified. "I am not as slow as Watson! Neither am I as unfit. Oh, look at the time, the Hong Kong Exchange is opening soon. Hey, call me when you need something else."

"Are all these for free?" I had to ask. Josef never do anything for free. There had to be a hidden agenda somewhere in that tangled mind of his.

"Are you kidding? I have a cookie jar investment in your little institution. I can bother you anytime with some little problems that I cannot contact the cops for." He cocked his head to a side once more, a sly smile playing on his lips. "And incidentally, most of my problems need immortal intervention. I have a tab in my account with your name on it. Nothing is free, remember?"

I should have guessed. At least he is always honest in manipulating me.

-+-

p/s: this gets better, I swear. just trying to polish it up a bit more...


	2. The Client

_Author's note: This is getting very good. Thanks to my two angels. you know who you are. _

**-+-**

I never advertise my relocation. The less this matter was known, the better. People might just think that I had moved, or simply died. Besides, the case was solved before it even got to the press, and I was more than happy not to press charges. The ex-wife, however, did. She felt responsible for it. That was her choice, of course. The important thing here was my anonymity was preserved, and I also get to move away from that part of Los Angeles without much undesired pomp and galore. The next time they flip the yellow pages looking around for a private eye and see mine, they would think of a new setup trying to capitalise on the first Mick St. John.

When relocating to a new location any business is usually slow. So I was rather pleasantly surprised when a letter arrived on a Wednesday a week later. It came from a Cynthia Watts. In the letter she stated that she had been trying to locate my office for the last two months, and finally did about a week ago. Furthermore in the letter she said that she was in town and wondered whether I could help her with some problems.

Although this sounded like a variation on the theme of the irate husband case – and even Josef pointed that out, too – I thought that I should not waste my time. It had been already one and a half week, and nothing was coming my way except for this. I could not overstay my welcome in Josef's bank accounts, either. I agreed to meet her, but the meeting had to be in my office. She agreed to it and that was that.

I was rather surprised when I saw a woman in wheelchair came through my door. She came alone. Very young – or young looking. Probably she had good genes in her. Her strawberry blonde hair was cut fashionably short, and she was surprising athletic for someone in her condition. For a moment I wondered how she navigated the corridor.

"I'm sorry," I began, "for not coming down to greet you. I thought – "

"Don't worry, Mr St. John. I have a driver downstairs, which is help enough. Besides, your corridor is more accommodating than most."

"I'm glad you approve, Ms Watts," I replied. "Please sit – uh, sorry..." I motioned to her wheelchair.

She instead laughed loudly and merrily. Something I had never heard in a very long time. "Are you unintentionally funny or are you trying to impress me?" she asked when her laughter ended. "And do call me Cynthia."

"Neither, I think, and not doing a very good job at both," I said. "Just call me Mick. What can I get you, Cynthia?"

She would like some ice cold water and I got it for her. As she sipped on her tall glass she asked:

"Have you ever had a high school crush?"

"Everybody does," I said. Mine, however, was almost seventy years ago.

She smiled. It did not hold long, however. "Everybody does. But the stories never end the same, do they?"

I shook my head. I had forgotten who my crush was.

"When I was in high school, I had a crush on this boy. We both became close and later on became an item. I had pictures of us in my locker. I even put stickers on them, you know, the heart-shaped ones. I used to keep everything that we shared – concert tickets, notebooks, ice-cream wrappers –"

"Ice-cream wrappers?" I blurted out in amusement.

Cynthia rolled her eyes. "I know. I was bordering on obsessive. But everything about him was wonderful. His eyes, his hair, the way he looks at me when we were sharing food or singing along in a concert – it was just wonderful. Then the big breakup came."

"Another girl?"

She nodded. It must have hurt her badly back then, because I could see pain flashing in her eyes. Cynthia blinked out the hurt. "It still tears me up inside, really, just thinking about it. But it had happened, and I was angry that I had to see it personally. Now, there's just a dull ache inside."

"So, is this about the girl or the boy?"

"I'm boring you, am I not?" she asked with a smile.

"No, Cynthia. It's just that if you're looking for revenge, well, I just don't go there."

Cynthia shook her head. "If I were, you won't be able to find her. She's died two years ago in a plane crash."

Okay, thank goodness for that. "Do you have his name or photo?"

She turned to fish something out of a sling bag she had beside her. It turned out to be a school yearbook. This was going to be tough. People age, and especially in Los Angeles, people _change_ their appearances. Going under the knife is after all, a lucrative business around here. A school magazine is never a good friend of a detective looking for missing friends.

Cynthia turned the pages and stopped, pushing the magazine to me with one finger upon a colour passport photo. I smiled inside when I saw the face. No wonder Cynthia was still hurting.

In the photo, the teen had bad boy written all over him. Piercing blue eyes that even the fading print could not dim, a crease between the furrowed brows, dirty blonde, unkempt hair, and thick neck that belied something of a star quarterback or a power athlete. Under the photo was printed _Duvall, Aaron._

"I know this is close to nothing, but it's the only photo of him I have," Cynthia said.

"But I thought you have photos of the two of you kept someplace," I recalled.

"You men may keep photos of ex-girlfriends like trophies, Mick, but women burn any useless bridges." Cynthia tried to hide the bitterness in her tone but it seeped out.

Some don't, I thought. I burnt her. "If that's the case then I have to ask from you for more time."

"I understand. I hope that you may find him after all these times."

"Excuse me for asking this, Cynthia. Why do you even bother about him?"

Her surprised expression meant my question was something she did not expect. I went on:

"He hurt you in the past, probably made you fall into a deep depression, screwed around with your head and emotions, but now you're looking for him. Why go through all the difficulties for someone who did you wrong?"

Cynthia sat in her wheelchair with her arms wrapped around her front. Her dainty nostrils flared softly once. Then her arms fell away as she took in a deep breath before replied, "Forgiveness, Mick. Yes, I confess that he hurt me bad enough – I mean, I caught him red-handed cheating with another girl! He left me, making me think that I was a fool. Then I graduated after high school, but he did not. He got involved in some gang fight, lost concentration in school, and failed the exams. I got an offer from a good university and studied, got a degree, started my own company, and pretty much became successful. Him I never heard about ever since."

I shook my head, unable to comprehend the reasons. "I still cannot see how you want to forgive someone who hurt you this much."

Cynthia's face broke into an almost enigmatic smile. I had to wonder what else was coming. "Why don't I tell you after you manage to find him, okay? That will be your bonus."

With that Cynthia left. I wondered as later I lie inside my little cold chest and fell asleep.

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I uploaded the next chapter already! Please do review!


	3. The Trail

_Author's note: Dear Lord, I screwed up._

_First of all, Aaron Duvall is in no way related to Coraline Duvall. Somehow I must've subconsciously carried that name around and came with the decision to use that last name and attach it to Aaron. But it rings nicely. Aaron – Duvall – rings nicely._

_Secondly, when I updated this story, we found out that one of our cats died. He fell from the tenth floor and somehow did not manage to land on his feet. I'm dedicating this chapter to him._

_Thirdly, there is Alexander Hamilton High in Los Angeles. It is purely for inspirational purposes only that I use the name. Google it if you don't believe me. In this chapter I swapped the name around. _

_Last, but not least, thanks for following my little story. Those who are content to read and review, I applaud your tenacity. Those who are content to read, I adore you; however, please remember to review when the story ends :). Yes. It will end. Soon._

_-_

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To start an investigation with a name and a photo is never a way to start at all. Even the best there is agrees to that. I had to look for more than what Cynthia had given me: the Hamilton Alexander High School Yearbook, edition 1988. That alone presented another problem: school is only open in daytime. The sun is up in daytime. I am a vampire. You do the math.

Sometimes Josef would remind me that I should not become a private eye. The sun gets in the way too much, and most of the action happen under the sun. I would be happy to prove him wrong.

So to the school I went. I met up with the principal – a very chatty man, by the way – and asked him if I could see their student records because I was, after all, a head-hunter looking for eligible and deserving school-leavers to join my manager's budding company in a sophisticated management training. I looked the part, too: I wore a round-neck t-shirt topped with a long coat that effectively covered hands and neck from the sun. Shiny shoes, too.

Flattered as he was for Josef's branch company to have chosen the school, the headmaster still wanted some sort of a proof. I gave him the number Josef asked me to call should something of this manner crops up, and the headmaster did that.

"Well," Mr Daniels nodded, obviously satisfied, as he put down the handset, "everything is in order, and they are sending a fax of the letter that you have forgotten to bring, too. So, feel free to ask Mr Darby here, Mr Michaels, while I have to check on the school football team. It's their photo-taking sessions."

I met up with Mr Darby. With all the nightmares I've had with school clerks, he was not the typical school secretary. With horn-rimmed glasses and a sunny disposition, he was helpful to a fault. And turned out he knew the school better than Mr Daniels did. Plus, he had worked in the school for maybe thirteen years. Perhaps he might know the students – you know, seeing them outside of the principal's office, meeting them down the hallway, sending letters, showing them their schedules. He had to at least know the parents.

"That's Aaron Duvall," said Darby when I pointed out a photo of a football team, dated 1987. I had noticed earlier that the same face from the yearbook popped out from the ensemble. "Played an impressive game that year. Brought back the title for us. Did us proud, the young man did."

"Now that's the kind of man our company would be proud to have," I exclaimed. At that point Darby fell silent. "What, something wrong?"

Darby shrugged. "That boy. Got so much before him, and threw it away in a blink of an eye."

"He fought?"

"More than that. He injured another kid. Got into a nasty fight, got that other kid into ICU, got himself into juvenile." He shook his head. "I feel sorry, still."

That was something Cynthia failed to mention. It made me wonder. "He was, huh. What become of him nowadays? Heard from him anymore?"

"No, never."

How surprising. "What about his parents?"

"He's orphaned at birth. Goes in and out of the system like a needle in a cross-stitch. But I gotta tell you, he was not a problem student. Not until that final year."

"Peer pressure, was it?"

"I don't even think it was that, Mr Michaels." Darby bit his lips in deep thought. His eyes stared at me over his thick glasses. They were green and suddenly wary, and I thought I might have crossed some sort of a line here. I quickly checked myself as smoothly as possible and gave him an innocent smile. "And why are you so interested in this person, by the way?" he asked.

Was he getting suspicious? "Like you said, there was so much potential in him," I said, trying to look nonchalant. "It's sad to see kids go so high only to get wasted like this."

"They're just misguided, Mr Michaels," Darby said, his voice suddenly hardened. "Anyone can have a second chance if they wanted to."

"Yeah, if only you can just take their hand and put them back at where they should belong. The question is whether _we_ get that second chance."

Somehow that made both of us fell silent. It was quite a while until either of us made a sound. I apologised to him, citing the heat that made me irritable, which it was. Excusing myself, I made the proper promises that I knew would not come true, and hurriedly left under the thankfully rather cloudy skies.

Now I had a photo, a name and a case that I could at least track down. For this I had to turn to a friend in the service. Maybe he had to break a few laws for me.

-+-

-

"I _am_ breaking about a dozen laws just by letting you see this dossier, you know," Sinclair whispered. He tried to look as relaxed as possible while drinking the coffee I had brought for him. Someone passed outside of the office and he stiffened. When the shadow passed, he released a sigh of relief.

"Oh, just relax, Sinc," I said as I went through the dossier. "It's not like I don't know when somebody's coming."

"Yeah," he said, sipping the coffee. "How do you do that, anyway?"

"Extra sensory powers," I said simply. Sinclair let out a long 'woah' like I was a new toy that just got pulled out of Santa's sack.

Sinclair's case was rather sad, and convenient for me. He got tangled in some very nasty feral vampire case I had been working since 1985. Sinclair was very nearly killed by the vampire, and I had to kill it the only way vampires can be killed – burning. I got very efficient in that, I realised, and that was rather scary. But Sinclair was thankful for that and he was the only human who knew my existence. Josef disapproved of this, but even with his riches, he could not get a good contact on the inside. No offense, man.

Sinclair never got over the fact that I had saved him from being vampire feed, and was always eager to help me in anything. He even accepted the position of a pencil-pusher in the precinct, even when he knew that the position was actually a demotion for running that serial murder case cold. He knew he could get inside the system without being spotted right away. Looking rather plain and not standing out also helped a lot. Although I have to say that Sinclair is no slouch in the looks department.

Most juvenile case files were not kept in the local police precinct; they were kept in the courthouse stores. Sinclair however got this down because Aaron Duvall was tried as an adult instead. It turned out that he was actually nineteen at that time of trial. (It was one of the curses of being an orphan – later I learnt that Duvall started going to school very late – age 9.) It was a very short trial; he was found guilty of misdemeanour assault and battery. His lawyer somehow managed to get him a year in prison.

"Aggravated assault and battery charges?" I remarked as I read the pages.

Sinclair nodded. "Uh-huh. Isn't that a bit too much?"

"Well, the victim did get admitted to the ICU so it had to be."

"For a day! I mean, was the victim made out of glass? Did he shatter? They had to glue him back together again or something?"

"Stand down, man! Why are you being emotional about this, anyway?" I asked him, smiling.

"I read that dossier a few times over while waiting for you, okay," Sinclair replied. "If I were the boy's lawyer, I'd scream the boy's statement was taken under duress, and that the victim was the son of someone very powerful in the society."

"Don't bring you conspiracy theory to town, Sinc. Everything here looks okay to me. He got off quite easy – one year in prison..."

"Oh, you missed the final page." Sinclair stood up, took the dossier from me without warning, and flipped it to the last page. "Read that," he said, looking down at me as I did so. What I read made my eyes bulge out.

_JULY 10 1990 – PRISONER 1892301 found dead in cell presumed suicide._

_Presumed suicide._

Should I rest my case?

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Any errors are mine. Please do review as I update this story!


	4. The Documents

_Author's note: I am so sorry for this lengthy delay. Lost the original copy (somehow it was deleted) and had to work the story from scratch. Plus with other things... I'll try to make it once a week. And here you guys go._

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I hate documents.

I try to skim through them, but it usually feels more like reading a Tolstoy gone wrong. Too many words, characters and theories and suggestions that may or may not be useful, but you don't want to miss them because they might just be the pivotal matter whereupon everything (pardon the pun) lies.

I closed my eyes and the handwritings of a pathologist some five years ago floated before me. It said everything: the wounds found on the body, things found around the body that corresponded to bruises and wounds on the body, and finally, the cause of death. _Death by suicide_, the pathologist had written down.

I grabbed my whisky glass and tipped it to my mouth, then realising that it was already empty. I groaned, stood up, and went across the room to the glass display, where my blood supplies were. Poured another glassful, and went back to the new study table. It was full of papers. Courtesy of Sinclair, of course.

He had been working overtime to Xerox the documents that may or may not be connected to Aaron Duvall's suicide. I got here an autopsy report, burial inventories, personal effects, papers, papers and more papers. I sat down, sipped the blood, and grabbed a report at random. It was the toxicology report. Nothing much in here, and I reckon there were nothing useful.

I grabbed another report. This time it was Aaron's background. It was probably compiled by the defence lawyer for preparation in court. Some of the details were already known to me, like that he started school at 9 and he won the title for his school at 19. There were, however, a few other new facts. Here it said that Aaron was born to Tyler and Michelle Duvall. The husband had some trouble with his tubes, and was unable to fertilise his wife's eggs. Aaron was born after his parents went to the local fertility clinic.

When little Aaron was only ten months old, Tyler walked out of the family and was never heard of again. Two weeks later, Michelle Duvall was found hanging in the family garage. The neighbour found her after they heard the baby's cries went unattended and of course it made them curious, as Michelle never would have ignored him. He was in his walker when the neighbour found him and his mother, who according to the report might have died somewhere three hours before.

From then the defence merely focused on the fact that although Aaron had been changing families like changing his socks, it was never him who initiated the removal. He might have tried his best to fit himself within the families, but I bet there was always a flaw somewhere waiting to pop out, like maybe his looks.

He had looks that could charm the socks off a nun, no matter how young he was, and that could be a problem with his families. Maybe some of the children in the adopted home could have gotten too close to be called appropriate by his adopted parents. That could have caused him to be continually on the transfer list. Looking at this list in my hand, the list was as long as Josef's houses. On the East coast.

The names in the list were neither familiar nor conspicuous. It doesn't matter; I'd have it in my pocket just in case. Meanwhile, the autopsy report was of interest. It stated here that Aaron Duvall died from exsanguinations. There were wounds found on his wrists, neck, and at the back of both knees. He was found in a rather unique position, as described in the report:

_Body was found face-down on the floor. The neck had been suspended by a blanket tied to the bars of the window, but as the body goes through rigor mortis, it fell down. Bruises on the neck correspond exactly to the knot. Wounds are on the neck, wrists, and the back of his knees. Judging from the amount of blood found in the scene, it is sufficient to conclude that subject died from extreme blood loss from the wounds found on the body, and not from airway suffocation._

Blood loss. Something nobody would have wanted, mortal or otherwise. What a terrible way to go. I tossed the report rather carelessly.

A rather tall pile of papers fell away from the table and onto the floor. Groaning, I walked around and gathered them. Under the dim light, I saw something among the papers that resembled the beginnings of a letter. It was a Xerox of an original a formal letter, to be exact. It was written in a rough draft, with lines crossing over some sentences and notes at the margin. I brought it closer to my eyes for inspection.

**APPLICATION FOR DISTANCE LEARNING**

When I saw the date on the letter, my old friend, Doubt, entered my head without further ado.

-+-

"Tell me something, Josef."

Josef raised his brows as he put down the phone.

"I found an interesting letter. It has to do with the case I'm working on now."

"Ms Watts' case?" I nodded.

We were in Josef's office. It was 3.15 in the morning, and his office was empty. Josef had just had a nice late supper in the form of a slight Asian. She was one of his favourites, and he made sure the woman was escorted back to her apartment. The limo driver had just called to confirm that.

"What of it? I thought your mole in the system can provide you with a lot of papers." He meant Sinclair.

"Sinclair is not a mole and he provides me with something that neither of us can lay our hands upon," I said, perhaps a bit too harsh. "Be kind to him."

"You know Mick," Josef rose, "some of these days, you will get hurt by this kind of sentiment you still have in you. It's like raising a pet dog: you know their lifespan is lower than yours, but you still insist that they are useful and keep you company. What happens to you when they wilt and die? Or worse, killed by some criminal?"

Josef, for all of his unscrupulousness, knows by experience that that statement is correct. It cuts me, inside where I can still feel that little scrap of humanity, it really cuts me and hurts me. Who am I to say that he is wrong? But there you go. I guess my weakness is neither sunlight nor a stake through my heart. It's my sentimental attachment to everything that is human, thus to a mortal.

I shook my head in reply. Josef grunted, shook his head too. "You're a hopeless case," he went on. "When you bother to save a mortal's life, that's when the rules are overturned. We either prey on them or milk them like cattle. Now you come along and make it your mission to try and save as much mortals as you can."

"Like I said," I quickly said, in order to stave off further reprimands that I did not need at 3 in the morning, "I found a very interesting letter amongst the documents Sinclair helped me to gather."

Josef grunted again. "Not a very suave effort to change the subject, but do humour me."

"First of all, I must tell you that Ms Cynthia Watts is looking for someone who is already dead."

This time his brows rose, but now in true surprise. "Well, you got me humoured. Go on."

"Second, he died in 1990. I have his death certificate, prison log that confirms the fact, and some burial inventories and personal effects."

Josef eyed me as if I had missed something obvious. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

"Waiting for what?"

"Aren't you going to tell your client about this?"

"Should I do it face to face?"

"Yeah, that's the way to go, missionary style." I groaned in disgust. "Well, how else are you going to tell her, smoke signals?"

"But this letter." I took it out of my jacket pocket and gave it to him. Josef unfolded it and read it slowly. "Look at the date."

"I am looking. Is it going to change into something else?"

"Dammit, Josef, the date was July 8 1990. Aaron Duvall died _two days later_."

"So?"

"He applied for distance learning programme, and two days later he committed suicide?"

"Maybe he got a negative reply from the programme."

I threw at him another letter. Josef's face immediately changed as he read it. "That's – weird, then."

I nodded, satisfied. "Do you kill yourself after knowing that you were _accepted_?"

"Not in a million years," Josef sighed. "Though I would have if it's a community college..."

This time I threw at him the paperweight.

-+-

"Anyhow," I began a few minutes later, after we had ended our horseplay, "should I tell Cynthia about this?"

"Which part?" Josef asked. "The part where her ex-boyfriend's dead or the part where you think something is wrong with the whole picture?"

"Both." I shrugged. "Maybe I should start with the death."

"Yeah, that should make her feel very close to you. Are you going to pour in some sympathy? Saying that you know how she feels, those kinds of words?"

I gave him a black stare. "You're a dick, you know that?"

"Right back at you," he replied.

-+-

Before I turned in that morning I left a message in Cynthia's voicemail. I asked her to meet me later that evening as I had some 'unpredictable turn of events to relate to.' I fell asleep as soon as the lid closed.

Tonight, somehow my dreams were filled with images from the fire – the fire that should have killed Coraline. But in my dreams she did not die. She simply shrugged the fire like it was a negligee made out of silk, strode toward the kid, and slashed her little neck. Arterial blood spurted from the little figure like a leaping fountain, painting my sight red. I screamed and caught the trembling figure as it fell down. Coraline stood before us, smiling down like a blind Madonna, blind to the misery that she had just inflicted.

"Now," her voice said, so far away, so gentle, yet still incisive to my dream nerves, "make her live again, Mick. Make her yours, mine – ours. Finally, we can have a family."

I heard the rattle of the girl's last breaths, and there was no sound more unnerving, more disconcerting than that little sound coming from such a fragile, small body. I could leave the girl to die and drive Coraline to hell with all my fighting and biting and eventually burning, but this girl – I had promised her mother to return her alive.

Would her mother notice the difference? Would her mother realise that the little girl will remain the little girl forever? Would she put the blame on me when I failed to get her back as promised?

I found myself drawn to the spot where the blood was now oozing out slowly, and my fangs touching her tender skin there, puncturing holes, feeling her whole body went rigid and her hands grab my head with a strength no little girls should have.

-+-

I woke up as Coraline's laughter died within my dream. I rarely wake up screaming nowadays – it sort of became a part of my sleep. I am so used to it now; the only side effect of such dream variations of the theme is that I would be very tired. Today, though, I was extra tired because of that dream. I looked around for the wall clock. Cynthia should be coming in an hour's time. I grabbed a towel, tied it around my waist, and entered the shower, trying to forget the dream that I just had.

Although I said that it had become part of my subconscious diurnal meanderings, it does not mean that it becomes easier with each replay. Warm water might help ease that twanging nerves on my back.

The water turned too hot, though, and I knew it was time to step away from under the showerhead and get dressed. I chose a black tunic with lace-up front and a very relaxed pair of pants. I just want to stay home tonight and think the night away. And there was also the thing about Cynthia.

She arrived a few minutes after, and I ushered her inside. Cynthia looked rather excited, which was not easy on me. I was about to give her the worst possible news.

"So, what's the development?" she asked.

I sat down and tried to look as calm as possible. Then I dropped the bomb.

"Cynthia, Aaron Duvall died in prison five years ago, in July. He was imprisoned after he was tried. I'm sure you still remember about that."

Cynthia's eyes narrowed. She slowly shook her head. "I remember that trial. Aaron was tried because he hurt a kid too badly. He did go to prison for that. But – he – he can't have died." She shook her head again, indignantly this time. "He's not dead. He – is – not –_ dead_."

Her knuckles were white on the armrest of the wheelchair. I moved forward, trying to comfort her, but the hands flew up to me like white talons, stopping me dead.

"He – is not – _dead_ – Mr St John! You must be mistaken!"

I held out my hands in surrender. "I know this news is hard for you –" I began, but I was cut off.

"NO! Aaron is not dead! I saw him a week ago at the local park, and again yesterday!" Cynthia stared right through me, as if I had become an intruder in my own home. "It seems I have wasted my time and money on your services, Mr St John! That's it, then. I no longer require your services. Do not worry about your payment, though. I shall not attempt to force you reimburse them." With that she left.

There went my plan to spend the night in peace.

-+-

To be continued...


	5. The Idea

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_Author's note: I apologise profusely and profoundly! Please allow me to explain this late update. Internet service was interrupted for two long weeks. Darn it! But now I'm back! You may notice that this story is slightly longer than usual because it's supposed to be in 2 chapters. But I decided against it and served it in one. Now there's no more delays!_

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I could imagine Josef giggling away in his posh, comfortable office that was abuzz with all sort of screens and phones ringing in the background if I told him this. Damn it. This was not going as best as it could be.

I sat there, staring at the spot where Cynthia had been fifteen minutes earlier. She must have left the block, heck, maybe the city, by now. The strange thing was I had no feeling of urgency. Normally I would leap and chase after a client, telling her that I would do anything to accommodate her case. But here I was, staring into space like some fat cat waiting for perhaps a bowl of milk to magically appear out of thin air.

My head was empty for the last sixteen minutes. Now, though, a train of thought began.

Aaron Duvall died in prison, around 1990 in July. Years before, he was arrested and imprisoned because of an assault and battery charge. Two days before he died, he wrote a letter to apply for long distance learning. The day he died, he received the letter telling him he was accepted. A few hours later, he committed suicide.

Why did Cynthia insist that Aaron was still alive? Could it be that the guy she had seen twice was just a dead ringer of Aaron? How in the hell could Cynthia be so certain about that? Was there anything wrong with this picture?

Plenty of young men around LA looked like Aaron. Not to say that he was a common-looking man. Like I've mentioned before, anyone who had money in LA could go around and get under the knife, and a few days later you'd end up looking like Aaron if it was good. If it was bad, there was no saving you.

I knew I could not stop thinking about this, so I decided to go down and drive.

It was a few hours before dawn. Driving down Los Angeles streets at these hours was calming to me. The wind in my hair helped to draw the thoughts away, if only for a while. Gosh, I really needed this. There was so much to figure out, but even more plenty to fall through along the way. I made a sharp turn on the following junction, barely missing a Toyota coming out of the other street.

Again, I tried to let my mind wander off but this time, it was along very dark corners of my mind. Old sins cast long shadows, they say. So do crimes. Was there something else that I could not have seen? Something so small that I could have missed? Or maybe something so big I barely notice it? Either way, if either were correct, I could not see them right now. For the love of humanity, I could not see them.

I made another sharp, sudden turn. A white metal body flashed before my eyes before disappearing behind my rear view mirror.

"DO YOU Have a death wish..."

I smiled. The way voices fade away with distance really made me long for the decay that comes with mortality. Voices, memories, body, muscles, hair – all that disappears with time. Not me. Not Josef, not his friends, not any of the others who were like us. For heaven's sake, I never wanted all this longevity. At times I hated everything that was me, what I had become: unable to fade into time, becoming spectator, never the participant. I hate becoming a spectator. That's why I don't go to any spectator games, like baseball or basketball. Not that I hate the game, but that was neither here nor there –

My foot found the brake pedal and just floored it. It was lucky there was no car behind me; otherwise I had to call my insurance agent the next morning. But now a massive idea had just hit me in the face.

I had to get back to Josef.

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"Josef!"

I banged his bedroom door. The doorman knew me good enough to let me in, although getting into his bedroom is a different matter altogether. If I were a woman, that would be a different story. "JO-SEF!"

A muffled sound came through the door. A second later it opened. Josef's head peeked through the half-ajar door, eyes half-closed, droopy. His voice, however, was as sharp as a razor. "You know what time is it?"

"Yeah, Hang Seng is closing now. And I need your help with prison."

Josef's eyes drooped lower, if possible, and so did his voice. "What have you got yourself into now?"

"No, not me; Aaron Duvall!"

"I thought he died."

"He did! He did die. But – just saying, Josef, bear with me – but what if Aaron did not really die?"

Josef stared through me. A long silence passed between us. Then he opened the door a bit wider, sucker-punched me in the stomach so fast I had no way of making sure it ever happened, but I doubled over and fell down, and closed the door slowly as you please.

"What the hell was that for!" I screamed at him after I finally recovered. "JO-SEF!!"

"Come back at night, you dummy!" I heard him say through the door.

"You don't have to punch me!"

"Serves you right for waking me up!"

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The last time Josef punched me like that was when I tried to hit on a girl he really liked. He left me lying on the dance floor, because it turned out Josef really liked that girl – for dinner. I was not so strong back then, so the punch really packed a lot of pain. Still, for a four-hundred year, that punch was still strong.

As promised, I quickly went to Josef's place where I found him with his poker friends. I had to wait for them to finish a set before Josef decided to take notice and speak to me.

"You know very well that prison is a dangerous place for a vampire to be in," Josef said. "Whatever put that idea in that little head of yours?"

I told him. "This was really something that I haven't explored yet."

Josef laughed. "You sound like you're about to have sex with twins."

"Josef, please. I need you to listen to me."

"Yeah, I'm all ears."

"Is there a mole in the penitentiary?"

Josef's face became dark all of a sudden. "Where are you getting with this?"

"Answer me."

He slowly looked over my shoulder. I did not turn. I knew nobody was there. But being Josef, paranoia was his main trait. Then he began:

"We don't talk about it outside the Circle –"

"What's The Circle?"

"Can you just listen?" I made a motion, zipping my lips. "Thank you. It's something we cooked up over last century after the government got really tight with the law. Some were thankful of it. Remember the Prohibition?"

Since I was allowed to talk on grounds for answering a question, I did my role quite wonderfully. "Yeah. But why were the vampires involved in the Prohibition?"

"We don't drink liquor, yeah, but we were involved in the business of selling them. We started selling them underground after Prohibition took place, but every now and then some got caught. So we had to have somebody within the system to take care of the unfortunate ones. Take them out as slowly as possible without anyone noticing."

"Does the system work?"

"It worked. However, we've had no reason to use the system for the last seventy years."

"And?"

To hear Josef's reply was like watching a sponge being squeezed out for the last vestiges of water. "A request came about five years ago."

My spine tingled. "Where from?"

He said three words. Three precious words. How funny your whole sanity could hinge upon three small words.

"The state penitentiary."

I grinned. "What exactly was this request?" I asked further.

At this moment, Josef's face really became dark it was almost lost within the shadows of the room. "To become one of us."

I sat back and let out a loud sigh. My mind was a whirlwind of emotions. There was relief, because I finally could let it rest in the back of my mind the fact that I was correct. There was sadness for Cynthia, because although Aaron was still walking around, he was no longer alive. However, there was no happiness. What was left, after all that feelings had passed, was a slight feeling of deceit.

"You knew this." I saw Josef's hand go up, trying to stave my words, but I ignored it. Some kind of fire was swelling within me that could not be stopped. My fatigue was giving way to it. "You knew this, but you did not tell me. Why haven't you told me this?" Josef flung both his hands in the air while I went on. "You could have simply told me all about Aaron and saved me the trouble, but you kept silent and let me loose in a maze like a blind lab rat."

"It was fun while it lasted," Josef said in a repentant voice. His face, though, was everything but.

"Does everything exist only to amuse you!?" I could not help it – the anger suddenly bubbled to surface and burst like methane gas that had just caught fire. "I am not an amusement to anybody, dammit! If you want to have a puppet, sire one of your blood girls and take her as a wife!"

Now, Josef and I knew that there are no boundaries between us. We know each other too well to hide anything. Heck, I already told you that I even detailed to Josef how I killed Coraline and where I did that. He in turn told me a lot of things, some of which he chose to divulge in between blood-drinking sessions, others like a mine detonated without warning or like anvils dropped on my toes. But when those words were spewed out of my lips, I knew I had crossed a hitherto unknown line.

His eyes brooded over. His lips became a thin line, unsmiling, frigid. The air around us – around me, in fact, suddenly seemed stifling. His whole body became as hard and cold as marble. Unable to help myself, I immediately snarled at him, so thick was the air around me with menacing aura that came off Josef. But Josef maintained his silence, which was like fighting quicksand – it surrounded and gripped hard.

Slowly, I recovered, stood up shakily, and turned around. I gave him no farewells. I needed a long sleep tonight. Should Cynthia think kindly of me and choose to call me later, I would simply tell her the same story and give her all the convincing evidence needed to stopper whatever thoughts she still had for Aaron. If she did not spare any, then I could continue sleeping.

After checking my face in a mirror – there was plenty in the lobby of Josef's office – I took the elevator down and walked off into the night. I came walking; I went home the same, leaving all the anger behind like a trail of noxious gas.

p-q

Next evening, I sat in my office. Unfortunately, that reminded me more of Josef. Everything around here was bought with Josef's money. I still owed him, dammit. Should I go and apologise? How do vampires correctly apologise? Maybe I should ask for blood from Santiago. But Josef drank only fresh blood. He did not drink drawn blood because he claimed they reminded him too much of stale bread.

Here I was, thinking about Josef, when I should be thinking about that Aaron guy who started it all, who chose to fake his own death and get out of the prison, only to strut around Los Angeles and get detected by an ex-girlfriend who had unfinished issues. Why he couldn't just stay down like a vampire with a stake through his heart was anybody's guess. That would have made everything easier, for goodness' sake.

Now, although I knew Aaron was still alive, I now had new conflict: should I tell Cynthia that Aaron was still alive – kind of – or simply let it be? Maybe I'd just wait it out – see if Cynthia called and then I decide whether I would tell her.

The phone rang. "Mick St. John, Private Investigator. Do the deed."

I was in no mood to answer the phone, so I let the call go to my voicemail. Then I heard Josef's voice.

"Pick up, you idiot."

Feeling rather childish, I did not move from where I was lounging. The chair was quite comfortable, and I leant backwards in it, almost lying on it. I began thinking about a certain night club where I could go and mingle for –

"I know you're there. Pick up or I'll call my accountant and have every single scrap of your office carted away to the Arctic Circle. You know they don't need a PI there."

Maybe some of the Inuit lost their sleigh and needed a PI to look for it, Mister Know-It-All.

"You do not want to hear me sing."

I froze in my chair. Not likely, since this was recorded.

"All right, then. _I blame you for the moonlit sky, and the dream that died, with the eagle's flight. I blame you for the moonlit nights, when I wonder why, are the seas still dry? Don't blame this..._"

When it really comes down to it, vampires are nothing more than intuition distilled. We feed when we're hungry; we snarl when we're threatened, we sleep when it's dawn. My intuition at that moment came, sadly, a breath too late. I had leapt from my chair, sped across the room to where the telephone was located, knocked it off, and somehow found the handset on the floor.

Josef's voice spat out of it into my ear: "Well, that was disappointing. I was really beginning to think that you're not at home." His voice was cheery as usual, as if nothing had happened yesterday. Imagine sleeping with your female friend and calling her up next morning like nothing had happened. That was how _Josef_ should have felt. But I guess his propriety had long disappeared with the ages.

"Why are you calling?" I asked.

"Oh, still mad about yesterday, are we? I thought you're more resilient than that."

"Why are you calling?" I repeated myself.

"Mick, do I need a reason for everything that I do?"

"You may not need a reason, but you could have told me."

He fell silent. That was a first. I went on: "I thought there are no secrets between us, man. We're both – well, like this. So far I've been open about everything to you. The least you could have done is be open to me about everything you are. I will not judge you. I will never do that."

Josef suddenly gave a shaky laugh. "Dear lord, we sound like an old couple!"

"Hey, you're the one who called first and began singing – off-key," I countered. "Nobody does that except to get attention – and forgiveness."

"Just to get your lazy butt off the couch," said Josef, his voice light and teasing. Maybe he was asking for some apology, in his own way. Josef's mind is warped – or advanced, take your pick. His version of apology is by forcing it upon the receiver. "Come on, Mick. Let's get out tonight."

"Oh, a song through the phone _and_ a dinner date! What is this, a proposal?"

"Think what you may," Josef sneered. "But be prepared, 'cause we're going to a place you'll never guess in a million years."

"Then I'd better start guessing," I replied.

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When you're a vampire, surprise is a feeling you no longer wish to retain. Partly because now you are part of the unknown, the darker side of life. You also cannot afford to feel surprised. It only takes away time that is vital for your preparation of survival. But now and then you do get surprised, like when Josef asked me to pull over.

"Where in the world are we? Why are we here?"

Josef beamed at me as if he was about to get a bar of blood candy. "You'll see."

He walked off, while I stared at the building before us. We were in upstate Los Angeles, where there were fewer high-rise buildings. This building was only two storeys tall, very modestly constructed, and there was no trace of grandeur going on about it. The only huge thing it had was a signboard that said 'Velvet Heaven'. It certainly was not a night club – I did not see a long queue of people lining at the door. Neither was this a high-class brothel – the garish neon lights were absent. To add to my confusion, we were in the middle of some housing estate. I went out of the car, locked it, and followed Josef's lead.

At the door, Josef was conversing with some brunette. I stayed a respective distance away, even made an attempt at turning off my supersonic hearing.

She was once beautiful, and still looked it, sans the tell-tale signs of going under the knife. Either that or she had help from the best doctor around. They talked at length and now and then threw searching glances at me. Mostly the brunette. At one point she nodded, opened the door a bit wider, and Josef motioned at me to come in.

As I walked through the threshold, I realised what this building was. It was a cake house. The whole first floor was littered with cakes placed upon crystal cake stands. But they were no ordinary cakes. Each of them was exquisitely made, painstakingly created. I could not imagine how many hours one could labour creating these arts.

My eyes fell upon a three-tiered cake that was made from white icing. It had folds more than I cared to count, and the details upon it were ingenious. The lace-like trimmings at the edge of the hanging folds could have been real lace had I not touched it and brought it to my eyes, where it disappeared in a white smudge upon my fingers, much to the disapproval of the brunette.

I recalled, with embarrassment, why I was here. "Why are we here, Josef?" I asked him as the brunette walked off to presumably the office.

"You'll see, you'll see," he said, that childlike enthusiasm was so unlike Josef. He even rubbed his hands together.

Slowly the door to the office opened and out came the brunette. In tow was a young man, no older than twenty, dirty blonde hair and tall. When he was under the light, the face that started it all was visible. I gave Josef a wry look, then turned to the young man.

"Can we have a personal chat, ma'am?" I asked the woman. She turned Josef, who nodded once, and went back to the office. "Now, you young man. How have you been?"

Understandably, he gave me a strange look. "Who are you? You're nobody I know."

"I happen to be a private investigator." As soon as the words came out, he backed away with a wary look in his eyes.

"Listen before you do anything foolish. I was hired to look for you, Aaron Duvall."

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	6. The Man

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_The latest chapter is in! Do read and review!_

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We were ushered into the small, cramped office. The brunette said she would have to leave for tonight, and she would appreciate it if Duvall would lock up afterward. She then left us after turning off the display hall lights.

We sat there, three vampires, ill at ease, instinctively sizing up each other. When I turned to Josef, however, I noticed he was not ill at ease at all; in fact, he seemed to enjoy this – this fidgety, pincushion sensation that was rapidly spreading in my ass area. Did I mention that I was probably a closet sado-masochistic? I love driving myself up the wall of a blind arachnid and watch myself disentangle my way out of its web.

It could have ended in a fight over dominancy – with me winning, of course, and that darned boy's neck tight within my grasp. But Josef's voice languidly sailed through this and asked with the air of a bored aristocrat:

"Well, boys, are we going to say something?"

And everyone was talking all at once.

"I am not going to surrender myself like a lamb to the slaughter –"

"I have been looking for you, boy, so I appreciate if you should thank me –"

"Thank you? THANK YOU!? And don't call me young man, you rotting carcass –"

"Have you taken a look in the mirror lately? You're also a rotting carcass –"

"Not from where I sit – you stink like hell –"

"You, boy, do not know hell until I have these hands around your neck –"

By this point, in retrospect, I really believe that Josef enjoyed watching others' misery. When you've lived that long, the only emotion that got him high was probably negativity. He merely stood there, arms around his chest, his head tilting here and there like watching a very long run of tennis. Only when I rose from my seat and was about to scratch my name on Duvall's face, did Josef make a semblance of stopping us. "All right, girls, pipe down."

We both turned to him. "Stay out of this," Aaron began.

"Yeah, you stay out of this." I ran an angry hand through my hair. "This is all your fault! Dammit if it isn't, Josef, you could've told me about this and save the running around!" Somehow, that outburst dissipated my anger completely. Maybe I was too tired by now to even scream at him. I turned to Aaron who seemed to wait for his turn to speak his mind. But the youngster simply made a very convincing imitation of a goldfish out of air.

I turned my attention to Aaron. "You know I will not do anything to hurt you. Unless you fight back."

"Why would I?" he asked. "You got me when I'm the most vulnerable."

"What do you mean you're vulnerable?"

He spread his arms. "Look around you." His voice was a mixture of hurt and pride.

I did and said one thing that came to me. "Cakes?"

"Exactly. These are my creations. They're nothing less than my creations, my legacy to the world... my children." He stared longingly through the wide office window that made me feel like watching a movie in a theatre. The cakes stood out there silently, like guardians in snowy white and multicoloured shades. When the lighting was off, they really looked like people, standing stock still.

"I created everything that you see out there. I began very small, a one-tiered cake with simple icing decorations. Then I moved on to gum paste. My very first design caught Irene's eyes. It was inspired by something I saw one chilly spring evening in Lake Balboa."

Josef spoke after a long silence. "Cherry blossoms. That cake became an instant hit with celebrities. They wanted to know who the designers were, but they were unable to meet him face to face."

My memory whirred to life. "I remember that. The Secret Master who made fanciful cake designs only when it suited his fancy, so they say. It became the only cake boutique to be opened in L.A. and has stood the test of time since." I shook my head. "You're the Secret Master. There is little wonder why Irene allowed all these. You keep her shop alive all these years."

Aaron turned to face me. "Hey, don't say things like that! Irene allowed me to work here because nobody else would! She understood – she knows what I am. This arrangement is perfect – I work better when it's quiet and nobody is around, and in daytime Irene will show customers around to look at the cakes."

I nodded. "I meant what I said now in the best intentions."

"Best intentions are what ended me up here," Aaron said in a low tone, almost begrudgingly.

"Yes, about that bit," I nodded again, with a sidelong glance directed at Josef. "Let's start at that. Tell me how your best laid plans landed you here."

Aaron's eyes widened. "You know?" he asked. His face would have flushed red if he were human. His eyes were wide and full of questions.

"Well, I have my ideas, and your plan was near-perfect. But give me your side of the story first," I cajoled him.

This time, Aaron turned his chair around and faced me – us, really, with a distant look on his face. His eyes, though, were fixed sharply in the present, on me, actually. I could very well imagine how girls – Cynthia, in particular – fall for him head over heels. His hair used to be free, but now it was neatly bound behind his head with a small length of leather – maybe rawhide. Those blue eyes were still piercing and deep. He easily towered over my head by a few inches, yet his size was never a deterrent – one could feel rather secure around him. His long large fingers restlessly drummed the armrest before slowed down to a halt. He then cupped his mouth.

"Where do I begin? There was so many things I never thought could become the cause, but when I reflect upon them one by one, they could have been the causes."

"I suggest you begin with the letter," Josef said. "You received the acceptance letter. Then you 'committed suicide'. Mick here was nearly out of his head puzzling this around."

I stared at Josef in disbelief. He was in this thing all along. The only vampire around that I trust with my well-being lied to me like breathing.

"Ingenious, huh?" Aaron actually smiled at me. "That wasn't my idea, really. I thought that was too dramatic. When I was awakened later, they had to tube-feed me because I was so weak. I recovered only a week afterward, enough for the news of my death to disappear from the news and the minds of everyone involved."

"Cynthia thought you had been imprisoned, you know?" I saw one eyebrow rose suddenly. "She came to me asking to look for you. Did you go out within the last one week or so?"

Aaron nodded. "She did, huh." That faraway look again crossed his face for a brief moment. Then he shook it off. "Yes. I went out for a walk in the late evening. I got a new inspiration from that walk –"

I was not going to listen to a description of cake decorating, so I quickly stopped him. "Pray stay in our current topic. So you did go out?" Aaron nodded with an apologetic look in his face. "Okay, that might have been where she saw you."

"And now she's going around looking for you. Isn't that sweet?" Josef's tone was however dripping with sarcasm. Romance was not a word found inside his dictionary.

Aaron and I, however, ignored him blissfully. "So now, do you want to go to her and talk? Or would you rather me tell her that you're dead?" I asked him.

He did not give me an answer right away. There was anger behind his eyes when he heard my question. I knew the anger was not for me because when he spoke a few moments later, his voice was calm and the anger was gone – or hidden. "She said that? That she was looking for me? That she wanted to see me again?"

I nodded. "Cynthia wants to forgive you."

Again that faraway look appeared. Slowly, though, it was replaced with disbelief that quickly gave way to what I would call disguised hilarity – he gave out a barking laugh, the same way a nutcracker would if it was not oiled for centuries. "Hah! Forgive me!" He gave a starting jump, throwing back the chair he was in. "FORGIVE ME! I Do Not Seek Forgiveness From That Self-centred Brat of Demon Spawn!" He paced about quickly, back and forth, back and forth, a caged animal with wild and angry eyes.

"I can't believe this," he said after slowing down. "Even now she still seeks a way to trap me."

Josef and I stared blankly at him, then each other, then back again. "Wait," I mumbled slowly. "Wait a minute. You said something about a trap?"

"Yes, I did. Naturally you'd like to know What the Trap was."

I nodded.

"Let me guess, Mr St. John, the story she gives to you. She found me in the arms of another girl. I left her for that girl, who in turn was the girlfriend of another guy. I got in a fight, landed the guy in ICU while I landed myself in jail, effectively cutting myself from the final year exams. Then she goes on about how she moves on and yet somehow, that nagging feeling affects her so." Aaron turned to me with an inquiring look. "Am I right?"

I made a face, threw in a hand gesture for a good measure. "Yeah, that was about right. You heard this before?"

Aaron gave out a small angry growl. "Of course I've heard of it before: She and I concocted the LIE together."

It seemed like Josef was taken by surprise. I, on the other hand, was quite prepared for something like this. "This LIE, it had to do something with the guy who was hospitalised back then, hadn't it?"

Both Josef and Aaron now stared at me in awe and suspicion. Aaron started first: "What else do you know?"

"Yeah, Mick, who is the one making someone running around in a maze now?" Josef asked, his face pasted with a tight smile. That meant he did not like where this was going – somewhere he did not know.

"That's what detectives do, Josef. We detect and we deduct." Smiling widely at Josef, I then turned to Aaron. "Seems clear to me now, although I have to say, your girlfriend Cynthia is one smooth talker."

"How do you think she got out of school with flying colours?"

"I don't want to know," I replied, while a hundred methods of getting out of school without really trying swarmed my brain, and each more debauched than the other. Then I decided to ask Aaron the question that might fry even Josef's brains:

"How did Cynthia find out that you're in love with Rodney Alastair Duggan, alias Roddy?"

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_I promise you, the next chapter will be up so soon!_


	7. The Past

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_work fast and type fast and I'm nearly over!_

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"Cynthia was a popular girl. She liked the limelight. She lived for it. A little proud, maybe, but that was okay. She knew it, and utilised it like a great chef in a super modern kitchen. School fundraisings were her favourite tools of trade. Our school never knew want of funds, thanks to her, really."

It was Aaron's turn to do the talking. I leant forward in my seat, Josef sank in his. I wanted to know how close my deductions were to the truth.

After looking up Aaron's records in the school, I had asked Sinclair to confiscate another document Josef did not have in that pile of documents he had collected for me. It was the hospital admission tables. Police had it if the patients entered in any hospital were in connection with ongoing cases. Addresses, names, but of course they were privy only to those who had access to the system, namely, my man Sinclair. After I found that particular date, everything else was as easy as reading.

Rodney Alastair Duggan, aka Roddy to his friends, was admitted to a hospital in August 1988. It was not mentioned in the report why he was admitted, but the date was just as good as any. Aaron was arrested in the same date, 20 August 1988.

The document had several attachments. They were doctor reports, and judging from the look of the lessening scribbles as the days went by, Roddy must have healed up nicely. One scribble had caught my eyes:

_Patient is delirious. Calls out a name – Ron? _

It did not take a long stretch of imagination to associate that name to Aaron's. Then a question popped into my head:

If Roddy was seriously injured by Ron, why would he call out the name of his assailant when he was out of it? The answer did not make much sense back then. I carried this question in my head until yesterday, when Josef confessed to setting me up with this. Only then the question had a valid answer. And now I was waiting for the confirmation of the truth.

Aaron paused a moment in his reverie. He ran a hand through his hair – a nervous habit since his hair was securely locked in place by that piece of rawhide. He was describing his school days; something I had no point in focusing because what I really wanted to know was how the misunderstanding came to happen.

"It was the finals. Roddy was in the team, and so was I. I decided to tell him after the game was over, win or lose. If the school won, then it was a bonus. If the school didn't, well, I thought at least I tried. But it would be so much better to tell him amidst that celebration. I gave everything I had to the game that day. I was doing everything right – made right passes, received and scored, and physical pain seemed to melt into the air. I focused on Roddy, gave him a smirk, thumbs up, and when it was all over, I realised that our school had broken the record for the highest points ever during the finals. In other words, we won.

"Everyone was jumping, tumbling, hugging, cheering. It was a picture perfect finish for a marvellous game day. Like something out of a movie. The cheerleaders were doing their thing – god, I can still remember their routines."

Josef's eyelids flickered, as if an automaton coming back to life. Then a smile appeared. "You – you have that gift, don't you?"

Aaron shook his head, not comprehending. "I don't get you."

"Your gift is sharp memory, almost photographic. You can remember everything you see the instant it passed your two corneas." He turned to the window. "This is why you can incorporate such intricate designs into your cake designs. And this is why you can remember everything that happened years ago like it was yesterday."

I whistled. "That happens a lot?" I asked Josef.

"No, only rarely," Josef said, sinking back into his chair. "Heck, maybe what's happening to you is a gift."

"What's happening to me? What do you mean by that?"

"Chasing criminals, helping people. You know, you do much better than the rest of your pack."

Now he's keeping tab of my successes? That's new. Anyway, back to Aaron. "With your memory, Aaron, it won't be a problem to tell me what happened then."

Aaron took a deep breath. Sifting through that much of memory had to be taxing even for a brain to keep up, and it was starting to show. His forehead began to bead with sweat.

"We were coming into the lockers. I joined in the team as they shouted, screamed and passed the trophy around. Coach Jeffries said a few words and told us to celebrate safely before asking us to take a bath. I joined in some more, then turned to take off my sporting gears while the rest of the team were still celebrating. My locker was a ways from where they were celebrating. There was a rustle and Roddy was beside me."

Rodney Duggan was not one would call handsome. Charming with an edge and self-confident, that was the correct description. His nose was a little off, his front tooth was chipped, and his hair was the colour of a mousy red. But somehow altogether, Rodney Duggan was considered as popular. Probably because of that aura of a heavy-duty athlete he had around him. And also the fact that his parents were the owners of the Duggan Corporations.

"He smiled and told me what a game we played today. I nodded and smiled. Told him he was not half bad, too. He punched me in the shoulders. We always do that whenever we mean good things. I was then prepared to tell him what I always wanted to – I had this script all prepared in my head, you know – when suddenly my vision darkened and I felt another set of lips on mine."

Aaron smiled. _Really _smiled. In that darkened room, his smile was like the brightest moonlight beaming down from a midsummer sky. It had to be so special for him. I tried to imagine that, and the closest I could come to was maybe when Coraline and I were really in love and every kiss burnt and tortured, yet we wanted more of it.

"It lasted an eternity – always, in my head – though it actually was half a minute only. When we parted, there was no denying of what had just happened. Roddy was looking half-stupefied, half-smiling. I had no idea how I looked like, but then it didn't matter. It happened. He was smiling, I was smiling... stupidly, maybe. Then I asked him:

"'What was that?'

"He shrugged and shook his head. 'I don't know, man,' he said, 'but sure would like to do that again with you.' He did that again – kissed me. The second time was slower, gentler. I don't know if you can say it was gentle – maybe still rough for a girl, but well, yeah..."

Aaron's voice petered down to nothingness. That smile was still playing on his face, though. Josef was still in his seat. I tried to think of something to say to Aaron so that he may continue. This – territory of love was foreign to me. But could Shakespeare be right, that all is fair in love and war?

I recalled the court transcripts. There was something about where Rodney and Aaron were found fighting. "In the court testimonials, Roddy was found outside in the parking lot. I take it that the fight did not happen there, in the locker room?"

The smile waned, then disappeared completely. "No, it wasn't there. We were prudent enough to stop ourselves. But knowing what we knew then, we could barely contain ourselves. We waited for the rest of the team to come out, then we walked out together. I planned for us to crash in my place where we would have more privacy, and Roddy agreed to that, even if it meant he would have to cancel a few plans he had, or dates. I called my date to cancel – her name was Elaine Rogers, by the way – and that was that. We walked together to the parking lot where he parked his ride when out of nowhere Cynthia came running towards us."

The next events, I could reconstruct it slowly in my mind. I could see how Cynthia was confused when Roddy said that their date was cancelled. And somehow, during that exchange, Cynthia saw what Roddy and Aaron tried to hide from everyone else – maybe some sort of body language that was too obvious, and she could have lost it then and there. But what could Cynthia, a cheerleader, have used to inflict such a potentially deadly force to a heavy-duty athlete like Roddy?

"To this day I couldn't figure out how Cynthia knew. What I remembered, after Roddy told her off, he turned his back to her, and suddenly I heard her screaming. There was this sickening thud, and Roddy's eyes became white, and fell forward on me. I grabbed him to stop him from falling further. Under the lights I saw the back of Roddy's head bleeding, there was this huge gash, blood was coming out profusely..."

Aaron covered his face. "I still cannot shake that image. That's one thing I don't like to recall ever again, but hell, it sticks, it always turns up like a bad penny. Sometimes when I'm trying to concentrate, that image comes out and everything just goes out of the window."

"What did she use, Aaron?" I asked him.

"I didn't know back then," Aaron replied, and saw my disappointment. "But afterwards, when I was interrogated, they said they found a brick, chockfull of my fingerprints, lying around the same area where it happened. I guessed that was the thing she used."

"She was smart, wasn't she?" Josef suddenly interjected. "Did she plead to you that this was an accident, that she did that out of anger, that it was a mistake?" Aaron nodded. Josef fell silent again as he digested this. Then his phone rang. "Oh, I have to answer this." He went outside.

"She thinks on her feet," I said, watching Josef talk to the phone. "Your fingerprints were planted there voluntarily, I assume. She also asked you to punch him anywhere on his body so that it would look genuine."

"I didn't know what I was thinking back then," Aaron said, his voice small and hurt. He stared down at his hands, now clenched in impressive fists. "I thought I was protecting Cynthia, and also Roddy. I mean, he was a school athlete, respected by all, but gay? I didn't think anyone had enough courage to swallow that. And Cynthia, well, she had more chances than I did back then in school. I mean, I only depended on my sports to get to college, but she had more – she had the looks and the brain."

"Which she evidently knows how to use, then and now," Josef said as he entered the room. "So, Mick, satisfied now? You know it's almost four."

I went over my head, looking for unanswered questions. There weren't any, not at this point, anyway. "Is it okay if I drop in now and then to visit? Maybe I have an order next time."

Aaron nodded. "I love company."

Fifteen minutes later, Josef dropped me off in front of my building. "You know what, Josef," I said as I was exiting, "this really felt like a date,"

"Yeah, and I'm so glad it didn't end with a goodnight kiss – you need to shave first." He grinned. That row of white teeth shone briefly. "So, where do you go from here? Do you call her or let it be?"

I shrugged. I now knew everything there was to know about the whole mess. I should very well leave it be. Let sleeping dogs lie. But there is that small matter about justice. Yes, justice. It just doesn't balance out right.

"I hate that look on your face right now," I heard Josef say as he revved up the engine. "Call me tonight. I may have something for you."

He was gone, then. This really felt like an anticlimax. It sucked.

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_To be continued as soon as possible!_


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